Hermione Granger and the Count of Days
by ThreeBrokenTickets
Summary: High-flying adventure! Low-flying adventure! Ancient history! International Travel! Doomsday prophecies! Sacrificing virgins? Hermione and a reluctant colleague stumble upon an event foretold by an ancient culture. They have reason to believe that this event can and will change the world. Who will help and how? EWE (because, seriously), M-rated.
1. Ch 1 - Symposium

_Not sure how or why this popped into my head. Originally, I wanted to do something surrounding Voodoo magic, but I found some artwork scenes from the Popul Vuh and fell down this rabbit hole. Any and all Mesoamerican mythology that I've gathered is simply through internet research. While I did make the effort to craft a story based in that mythology, I have taken liberties whenever and wherever I saw fit. I've incorporated South American lore freely throughout my Mayan myth story._

_Disclaimer: I am swimming in student loan debt, poorer than poor. I own so little, my original characters should rightly be public domain._

* * *

"_Here we shall write and we shall  
__begin the old stories" – _Popul Vuh

**Chapter One – Symposium**

* * *

Somewhere off the coast of Norway, deep beneath the frigid northern waters, the 500th Triennial International Magic Symposium was in full swing. Every three years, the best and brightest wizards and witches from all over the globe gathered for five days to engage in the four Ds of magical intellectual discourse: Discuss, Debate, Duel, and Drink.

The first four days were consumed by the research presentations, lessons for newly developed potions and charms, and other varied academic pursuits. Evenings, fueled by liquor, were reserved for debates, in which those who have presented new research or developed new magic may be subject to go before the collective of symposium attendees and defend their methodology and the ethics of the information they've present. The fifth day was devoted to dueling tournaments, and the fifth evening entirely to drink.

The symposium hall, an enormous glass-encased building sat 600 feet below the ocean's surface, could only be entered and exited via registered portkey, and provided rooms for every attendee.

This year, being the 500th anniversary (surely 1500 years in all) the symposium committee had taken special care to encourage the amateur element at the symposium. Generally, a witch or wizard would have needed have co-authored several articles with other more experienced individuals, before they would dream to present at the symposium. Luckily for Hermione Granger, her complete lack of published works was enticing to the symposium committee, so they didn't look too closely at her research topic.

It was now the third day of the symposium. Hermione watched with growing concern as her research partner became increasingly flustered. He alternated between loosening the askew knot on his neck tie and wiping sweat from his glistening brow.

David Manwarren was the top Runeologist in Britain. In addition to his study of runes, David also held two Muggle master's degrees, one in linguistics, the other in Ancient History, with an additional endorsement each in Sumatran, Phoencian, and Aramaic religions and cultures. The man spoke fifteen languages, six of which were so long dead, he had to teach himself. He could recite, in their native language and in English, entire pages of the Torah, the Q'aran, the Avestan Gathas, and the Kurkh Monoliths to name a few. Hermione knew, for a fact, that he had several excerpts from the Dead Sea Scrolls on his bedside table, just for a bit of light reading. At University, he'd written seven language translation guides, complete with IPA transcriptions of each word, as a hobby while he simultaneously wrote three separate theses.

Yet now, he acted as though reciting a single twenty-five minute lecture was the most terrifying linguistic endeavor he had ever undertaken.

Hermione placed a timid hand on David's shoulder, hoping to offer a show of support. David flinched under her touch, and his eye did that twitchy thing it did whenever she interrupted him when he was particularly focused.

"David, are you unwell?"

His face twisted up, eye twitching to an inaudible beat. He opened his mouth, but promptly closed it clapping his hand over it.

"Are you going to be sick?" she asked, taking a protective step back.

He waged an internal war with his gastrointestinal system before it was finally safe to talk. "I'm just not a good public speaker," he finally spit out at Hermione.

"Oh, that's just jitters. You can speak circles around everyone at this conference. Besides, we're hardly well-known in the world of academia yet. We've only managed to book a small lecture hall. Maybe a hundred wizards will show up at the most."

"Ohhh," he moaned, burying his face in his hands.

"However did you pass your thesis defenses?"

"Three glasses of bourbon, a mop bucket of sick, a panic attack that sent me to hospital, and an adjunct professor who argued with the defense committee that my research was sound and that I should not be punished for sudden and unexpected illness. They approved my work without ever speaking a single word to me."

Hermione stared agape. She and David had worked 60-70 hours a week, every week since the New Year cramped in his miniscule office in the Department of Foreign Magic at the ministry. In all that time, he never once mentioned that he would have a problem presenting their findings to the public.

Since they met six months ago, they had spent nearly every day together pouring over ancient texts; he dictated the translation, while Hermione consulted number tables, calendars, astronomy charts, and abacuses. For their endeavors, they had stumbled upon a long-forgotten prophecy which could amount to nothing, something, or everything. Hermione, who told David's department she was on loan from the Department of Numerology, had essentially signed her termination papers when she had ignored several projects concerning leyline databases and Magimeters that needed to be recalibrated. She had net yet been fired, as she had taken personal leave to attend the symposium. Another thing her department was yet unaware of.

"Besides, _this_," he gestured to his speech notes, "is not some fluffy thesis about the fricative shift of Arabic language. _This_, is madness."

Hermione narrowed her eyes at her partner. "David, you agreed to this. When we saw where this research was heading, I gave you an out. You wanted to keep pursuing it. I'm getting terminated as we speak for abandoning my post to do this. We _have_ to present this."

"Couldn't we publish anonymously?"

"No, we can't. It's an eight month process at least to be published and by then it will be too late. It has to be here and now. And we have to attach _our_ names to it if we want to have _any_ hope that someone, somewhere on the planet will take it seriously and do something about it."

"So why do I have to present it?"

"Because your name brings respect and gravitas. My name brings _Prophet_ gossip and talk of my inability to live up to my potential following the war. My name will grab the headlines, but your name makes this believable."

"Hermione…I can't. I'm going to look like a fool up there, erasing any gravitas my name might have brought." At that moment, David hiccuped quite forcefully.

"Are you drunk now?" Hermione hissed.

David sheepishly twitched his mouth.

Hermione tore the speech notes from his trembling hand. "Fine. But your name is staying on the research _AND_ you will be involved in the defense tonight. You don't have to say much, but I need you standing up there with me."

David's whole body relaxed, "Thank you," he whispered. He pulled his research partner close and kissed her on the forehead before pulling her into a hug. Hermione's whole body stiffened, but she relaxed into her partner, realizing the stress of her now impending lecture was causing her a great deal of apprehension. "Are you even sure we'll get called into a defense tonight?"

"I wouldn't be surprised if our research was the only topic of discussion for the rest of the conference."

David pulled back from Hermione, looking years younger than he had just moments ago. "Right then, I'm going to go be sick in the loo anyway, but I'll be back before you go in there."

Hermione watched her partner disappear around the corner and took a deep breath to steady herself. She turned to watch the crowd of witches and wizards funnel into the room that she would be standing in front of in just a moment, but before she could get a good look at her audience, N'gebe Mbembe, the symposium chairman, accosted her.

"Miss Granger, we are very pleased that you and Mr Manwarren will be presenting for us. We've had such an overwhelming response to your lecture that we've had to extend the room twice over. There will be close to three hundred people in there tonight.

Hermione's mouth suddenly went absolutely arid. "Well, that's good then," she said with a questioning inflection.

"Is Mr. Manwarren prepared?"

"Ah, well…" she croaked, "he is actually disposed at the moment."

N'gebe's eyes narrowed.

"But I've been asked to start the lecture. Mr Manwarren will join as soon as he is able."

Not entirely convinced, N'gebe simply shook his head in agreement. "Good to hear." And with that, he strode into the room.

* * *

Hermione took to the podium at the front of the lecture hall. A title card flashed on the wall behind her that read, '_Mesoamerican numerology and astrological calendar events: a meta-review of pre-colonial literature._' Hermione had spent more hours than were strictly necessary to scribe a title that would not incite an immediate riot before she and David had a chance to present their findings.

The room settled quickly, given Hermione no reason to delay. At the last moment before the doors closed, David slipped in and took a seat in the front row. He gave her a supportive smile and a thumbs up.

She coughed, slightly, suddenly feeling the panic that David had been building to all week. "Ladies and gentleman," she began. She could hear miniscule echoes of her voices translated into several languages and piped into the ears of witches and wizards wearing a small copper ear cuff. Subconsciously, she reached up and adjusted her ear cuff too.

She continued her speech. "My name is Hermione Granger. I am an Arithmantician at the Ministry of Magic in London. My research partner is David Manwarren. His specialty is Runeology, linguistics, and foreign languages. We have collaborated in the analysis of various Mesoamerican literate, with particular attention to the numerology contained within those texts."

Hermione nattered on for twenty minutes discussing the texts she and David analyzed, David's methodology of translation, and her numerancy methodology, cross-referenced with well-regarded number charts. Finally, Hermione reached the climax of her speech. "We've found a moment in time that we believe will have great worldwide significance. The twelve of July…in the year 2006."

The room broke into a hushed, frenetic conversation. Hermione expected this. The date in question was less than six weeks away.

"Something," Hermione's eye widened to convey the expansiveness of that word, "is going to happen."

Silence returned and hung thick in the room. A tall, dark-skinned wizard stood up at the back of the room. "And what exactly do you think is going to happen?" His foreign words were translated and piped through Hermione's copper cuff.

"Mr Manwarren and I have consulted with no less than two dozen Mesoamerican relics, which we then cross-referenced with countless Babylonian, Sumerian, Celtic, Macedonian, and Egyptian texts. Each one made mention of this date in some fashion. None of the cross-referenced texts specified the nature of the event, but just that it would be momentous."

A frosty-looking witch, swimming in hideous olive colored robes stood up. "Miss Granger, do you mean to tell me that beyond the mention of the date, there was not a single scrap of accompanying mythology to even suggest what is going to happen?"

Hermione swallowed intentionally before answering. "There is a one singular commonality besides the date." Again, Hermione felt a powerful need to swallow. She took her time. "According to the Mesoamerican texts, the date is strongly linked to a Mayan god by the name of Miclanthechtli."

Hermione could have heard a pin drop, the room waited on tenterhooks.

"Thegodofdeath."

Hermione winced and started counting in her head, waiting for everyone to collectively comprehend what she just said. She got to three before the first notebook came flying at her head.

* * *

_Oh, when I said reluctant colleague in the blurb, you thought I meant Snape. No, no, no, I mean David Manwarren. You so silly. Please read and review if this story finds you well, or not well, or if you're basking in its mediocrity_.


	2. Ch 2 - Horology

_Please, if you enjoy this (or hate this) leave me a review._

_Disclaimer: Ain't mine, just borrowed._

* * *

**Chapter 2 – Horology**

* * *

It began on New Year's.

Lavender Weasley (nee Brown), Ginny Potter (nee Weasley), and Hannah Longbottom (nee Abbott) had declared the holiday a perfect excuse for a 'Girls' Night Out.' Hermione, who would much rather have hung in with Harry and Ron, was dragged along. Being the best female friend of two males who were married made the relationships with their respective partners difficult to navigate. She did get on with Ginny, as they had been friends before she and Harry got together. Her friendship with Lavender was much more problematic. Made all the more complicated by the fact that Hermione and Ron had once attempted a relationship, which was after Lavender and Ron first attempted a relationship in which Lavender was jealous of Ron's friendship with Hermione. Needless to say, the two rarely found themselves alone. Tonight, Ginny would unknowingly act as a buffer. Hermione was grateful for having brought Hannah along as well. Hermione didn't have to fear the inevitable moment when Ginny excused herself to the loo and she was forced to head Lavender full on.

After much primping,they took to the streets of London in heels that were too high, skirts that were too short, and more make-up than Hermione had worn all year. Lavender suggested a nightclub that was, indeed, "thumping," as the kids say these days. Apparently, _Jager Bombs_ were quite delicious and one only had to pump their fist in an animated fashion for an entire tray of them to be delivered posthaste. Courtesy of their skirts, the girls didn't spend a dime on liquor, and were well inebriated when the club shut off the music and announced that while home was not the only destination of choice, they could no longer remain in the club.

At three in the morning, they found themselves at an all-night café in desperate need of greasy food to soak up the liquor in their bellies, hoping to free themselves from their impending hangovers.

They laughed and shouted at each other until their food arrived, at which point they ceased all conversation and tucked in with gusto. It was at this point that they were able to overheard a group of Muggle girls blather on and on and on about the Apocalypse. They were barely 18, barely dressed, and barely sentient.

"Duh Mayans said it would happen," a particularly dumb one told her friends. Hermione hated to stereotype, but the girl's had bleached her hair to within an inch of its life. There's no way she hadn't destroyed at least a few thousand brain cells in her follicular assault. "Dey make a calendar and everyfing that ends in 2012. Twenty-firs a' Decembeh. I fink dey would know."

"Emma," countered another slightly-less-dumb-but-still-obviously-quite-stupid brunette with blue streaks, "dey couldn'ta made that many calendars, dey didn't have no paper. And why didn't dey end it on New Year? Dat's when the year is over."

"Dey gots a different calendar, ya stupid bitch! It end before Christmas, 'cause dey don't want duh baby Jesus coming back ta fuck it up."

The look of contempt on Hermione's face must have read loud and clear, because Ginny roared with laughter when Hermione made eye contact with her. The others lost their composure and joined in.

"I sincerely hope I never sounded that fucking stupid when I was eighteen," Lavender whispered when their laughter subsided.

"Of course not," Ginny rushed to her defense. "I mean…except for the Won-Won years."

"Oh, I still call him Won-Won," Lavender said without an ounce of shame. "It turns him to putty in my hands. But, I've learned to use it sparingly. Besides, we've heard all about 'Harry Bear' and 'Neville Cute-bottom,'" she shot back at her friends.

This earned another round of giggles.

"Hermione," Hannah asked, "do you have any embarrassing pet names for Oliver?"

Hermione suddenly became fascinated by her chips. "Well," she started, grabbing the vinegar to seem nonchalant, "I don't really call him anything these days." She coughed nervously.

The girls said nothing. Hermione finally looked up to meet their pitying eyes. She hated the pity. "It's really not a big deal. It was early days. And we just realized we had different interests and plans for the future. It was mutual." She flashed a convincing smile to her friends. "Besides, I'm fairly certain what I did in the loo tonight would have been considered cheating had Oliver and I still been together.

Ginny, Lavender, and Hannah feigned disgust before prodding Hermione for all the filthy details. Hermione obliged, though her story was less non-fiction and more heavily borrowed from a steamy novel in which the cover art depicted a heavily heaving bosom.

As Hermione entertained them with her tale, Ginny detached the silver flask that was hooked to her thigh and "irished" up everyone's coffee. The girls all happily obliged, as the cold light of soberness had begun to creep into their consciousnesses.

* * *

Two hours later, the girls were in their pajamas and crumpled in various positions on Hermione's living room floor in her flat above Diagon Alley. A softly snoring Ginny cuddled with a bottle of white wine she had found in the back of Hermione's cupboards. Hannah had sought refuge under the coffee table and buried her face a overly chintzy pillow. Lavender sat in front of the couch, nervously twirling her hair.

"Do you think those girls were on to something?" Lavender asked Hermione, who was hunched over in the middle of the floor because she had, in a drunken moment of righteousness, decided that she absolutely needed to paint her toenails bright purple that very instant.

"Which girls?"

"The chavs in the café."

"About the end of the world? No."

"But I have heard that before."

"Lav, those girls were Muggles, and more importantly, idiots, I highly doubt they can read English, let alone ancient Mayan. It's a pop culture rumor. The Mayans were not a _doomsday_ sort of people."

"But –"

"But nothing! It's not true!" Hermione lost her patience.

Lavender's lower lip quivered. "I don't want to die."

"You're not going to die!" Hermione shouted loud enough for Ginny and Hannah to stir briefly before passing back out

Lavender scrunched up her face, squeezed out a few fat tears, and launched into a full-blown emotional whirlwind. She leapt from her position on the floor and swept Hermione up in an embrace that resembled Devil's Snare. "I miscarried a baby last month!"

Hermione froze in the hysterical girl's arms. She had prepared herself for an awkward moment or two alone with Lavender at some point in the night, but up until now, they had only ever talked about work, Quidditch, and hair. Hermione was far too drunk to console Lavender through something like this.

"I didn't even know I was pregnant until I miscarried. But it made me start thinking about kids and a family. Ron and I were planning on getting started right soon. But now, with the world ending, I'm just not sure I can do that."

Panicking slightly at the sudden and unexpected emotional weight of the moment, Hermione came up with a desperate plan to escape it. "Come with me," she said, standing up. She figured this would be the best way to shut her up.

"Where are we going?" Lavender sobbed.

"The Ministry."

* * *

Hermione and Lavender entered the Ministry lobby through the employee Floo at a quarter till six.

"Are we allowed to be here?" Lavender asked in a whisper.

"Eh," Hermione answered vaguely. Lavender did not work at the Ministry and probably should have come through the visitor's entrance. But Hermione was still a bit drunk, wearing fleece pajama bottoms and a ratty t-shirt, and had just ruined her fresh pedicure by shoving her feet in her boots before she remembered to cast a drying spell. Decorum was not on her priority list. What she really wanted was to settle Lavender's worries, send her on home Ron, and go to bed and sleep all day like all normal, single twenty-somethings with liters of liquor still working its way through their livers. "I'm not too worried. It's a holiday. I doubt anyone is here to catch us." Hermione was a bit surprised at her lack of concern for the rules.

She led Lavender to the elevators. "Department of Ancient Relics, here we come."

The girls exited the elevator and entered what essentially amounted to a warehouse. Hermione took her job at the ministry dreaming of this warehouse and spending hours and hours perusing its treasures. Hermione had received an Outstanding in Arithmancy and gone on to complete her university studies to become a Arithmantician. She graduated, with honors, and was immediately hired by the Ministry into middle management. But despite all appearances, Hermione's position was glorified data entry. She hypothesized the powers that be had wanted to keep her from becoming involved in anything that would attract any unwanted attention to the Ministry, given the _Prophet's_ fondness for throwing war heroes under the bus to sell papers.

Hermione couldn't sneeze in the wizarding world without a full-page spread detailing the velocity, volume, and consistency of her expectorated mucus, so it was fair to assume any contributions she attempted to make to wizarding society would be ripped apart before they ever got off the ground.

The entry to the warehouse placed the girls smack dab in the center of an enormous circular room. Objects were arranged first by latitude, then by date. Newer objects were located near the bottom racks, while more ancient history towered high above their heads. Hermione located the latitude she was looking for. Grabbing a grubby metal handle on the end of the rack, Hermione rose in the air with a lurch. When she approached the era she wanted, she stopped. The four wooden planks shot out from underneath the next lowest shelf, allowing for a gangplank to support Hermione's weight. Objects on this shelf were then arranged alphabetically. Hermione walked to the section marked _T_. But instead of finding what she was looking for, she found a bright red shoe carved from wood.

"Bugger," she exclaimed to herself. The shoe was a placeholder, someone else had what she was looking for. Hermione picked up the tag hanging from the shoe. _David Manwarren. _Hermione narrowed her eyes. "What, on earth, is the United Kingdom's _Rune Laureate_ doing with the _Tzolk'in_?" she asked herself. She shook her head in defeat. Hermione had been awake for close to 24 hours at this point. Her question would have to wait. Turning around, Hermione spied a spherical object made of sandstone, about the size of a dinner plate. The carvings on it were clearly Incan, but Lavender would hardly know the difference. Hermione grabbed the relic and made her way down to her acquaintance.

"Look here," Hermione said, pointing to a random hieroglyph that look vaguely like an erect penis, "this is the Mayan symbol of renewal. It's meant to represent the male sex organ and the creation of humans." Hermione found lying about ancient history was almost as fun as learning about it. "While the date this symbol falls on is, indeed, December 21st, the symbol occurs every December 21st. It's just intended to mark the solstice. There is nothing here about death, the apocalypse, or the cataclysm. I think we'll live."

Lavender stared at the relic the way one stares at surrealist art, pretending it all makes perfect sense. "Oh Hermione," she threw her arms around the girl again, almost causing Hermione to drop the relic she held in her hand. "Thank you so much!"

Hermione gave Lavender a non-committal noise and patted her on the back to indicate the hug was over. Lavender did not release her embrace.

"Come on, now..." Hermione said brightly, "...it's alright now." She really was quite uncomfortable with this level of familiarity with Lavender. "This means you can get started on babies with Ron," she offered, desperate to get the girl off of her.

Lavender pulled back from the hug, her face had brightened at the mention of babies. She really was a simple girl. "OK," she agreed.

Hermione placed the ersatz relic on the table intended for re-shelving. She and Lavender made their way back to the lobby, Lavender giddy with the prospect of procreation. The girls ducked into the Floo and returned to Hermione's apartment.

Back the apartment, Hannah and Ginny had stirred from their drunken slumber, ready to sleep off the remainder of their drunkenness in their own beds. Hermione saw her guests off in the Floo and collapsed into her bed. The world was, for all intents and purposes, dead to her.

* * *

On January 2nd, Hermione awoke in a foul mood. Her late night two nights before had thrown her sleep schedule entirely off. She threw off the duvet and willed herself into the shower. There, she washed, scrubbed, shaved, and exfoliated her body into an acceptable state of cleanliness. She then wrangled her hair into a bun, put on a pair of black trousers, black flats, and a white button-up shirt. She choked down her morning tea and brown toast, threw on an uninspired set of grey robes. With minutes to spare, she Floo'd herself to the Ministry lobby.

She made her way to her department, squeaking into the front office just before 9:00. The cuckoo clock which hung above the department secretary's desk let forth a cacophony of chirps, letting the workers who managed to make it in time know that were expected to start their work day. Leave it to the Department of Numerology to insist workers mind their schedules without an ounce of latitude.

Hermione darted into the desk pool to the right and dove into her desk chair, pulled open the nearest file, and dipped her quill. She began her first markings just as the clock ceased its chiming. No sooner had the bird retreated into the clock's inner mechanisms, than Nimra Aracely, head of Numerology, emerged from her office to check in with her employees.

Nimra looked every bit as terrifying as her persona let on. Her ashy-blonde hair was scraped so severely upwards into a sleek bun, that her eyes were minuscule slits, from which ice-blue irises peeked out. Her thin lips, affixed into a permanent scowl, were dark crimson. Her high cheek bones, thin nose, and pointy chin all gave her the appearance of having just sucked on a lemon.

She she paced between desks, her dove white robes trailed melodically behind her. Her low-heels clacked rhythmically against the marble flooring, with only the scratchings of quill on parchment to accompanying her bipedal staccato.

She paused briefly at Hermione's desk. Hermione didn't dare make eye contact, but she could hear Nimra's almost imperceptible scoff at the pictures of friends on Hermione's desk. While Nimra did not approve of personal effects at work, she was powerless to stop her employees from bringing them. When initially hired, Hermione complied with the unspoken rules, but as she grew more and more disillusioned with her job, she displayed them proudly. A quiet act of defiance.

At precisely 9:04, Nimra clacked back into her office, letting the heavy wooden door click shut behind her.

Hermione's posture sank. She threw down her quill and set to finding the files she was actually supposed to be working on. She set about calculating leyline readings, until her eyes teared up with boredom, then switched to

The cuckoo clock began another round of auditory assault precisely at noon. On the second chime, Nimra emerged from her office. The workers droned on. It was not until the final chime that everyone put down their quills, collected their lunch bags, and headed out the door towards the canteen.

In the canteen, Hermione sank into her normal table. The two chairs next to and across from her were occasionally occupied by Harry and Ron, but an Auror's schedule was much less predictable than her own. Today, it appeared she would be eating alone.

Hermione stared at her lunch bag with distaste. Hermione suspected the tediousness of her job actually lowered her metabolism, as little energy (mental or otherwise) was expelled. Disinterested in her lunch, Hermione let her eyes wander. Her eyes only had to travel to the next table before she settled her gaze on a foppish, middle-aged man sitting by himself. The man buried his well-defined nose in some foreign tome. So focused on the book, he gave little consideration to the bowl of soup he was also attempting to consume. Soup decorated the table, his robes, and the hideous tie around his neck, though not a drop appeared to have fallen onto his book.

Choosing to satisfy her curiosity (a rare event for her these days), Hermione abandoned her normal lunch post and took the seat next to the man. She did not know him personally, but had seen his picture in the _Prophet_ from time to time.

The man did not take immediate notice of Hermione's presence, but after she gave a polite cough, he lifted his nose and simply stared at his new lunch partner.

Hermione smiled at him sweetly. "David Manwarren, I presume?"

He lowered his book, but still did not utter a word. He gave a slight nod to her question.

"I have a question for you, David."

He nodded slightly again, acquiescing to her inquisition.

"What, in the name of the gods, are you doing with the _Tzolk'in_?"

David's facial expression moved from dumbfounded to panicked almost instantly.

"Who are you? What do you know about the _Tzolk'in_?" he asked defensively.

"My name is Hermione Granger," she answered his first question.

She watched as he searched his brain for knowledge of her name. His eyes widened as he finally recalled the name. She was well used to that look.

"I know very little about the _Tzolk'in_," she said answering his second question, "but I do know that calendars are not really your area of specialty. So again, I ask, what are you doing with it?"

David nervously flicked his eyes downwards towards the book he had been reading. Hermione couldn't read the title, but the cover illustration depicted some sort of sacrificial ceremony of an ancient culture. "I-I've found...something. B-but I'm not entirely s-sure what it m-m-means," he stammered.

Hermione beamed at the gentleman sitting next to her. "Well, Mr Manwarren, you only need ask. Come now," she stood up, motioning for him to do the same. "I want to see what you've been working on." Hermione hurriedly strode towards the exit.

David sat frozen in his spot for a moment, but when he realized Hermione wasn't slowing down to wait for him, he gathered his book and jogged after the witch.

* * *

At half-past twelve, the Department of Numerology collectively sat at their desks and resumed their work. Nimra exited her office once more, and strolled among the desk pool. Her clacking ceased at Hermione's desk, as she was no where to be found.

Nimra shook her head quietly and continued her clacking all the way back to her office. Nimra sat at her desk and accio'd the proper forms. A tardiness would not be tolerated in her department, particularly when the witch in question had no business holding her current position.

Nimra filled the form with incredible speed and sent it off towards human resources with a wave of her wand. Nimra allowed herself a small smile, as she had finally gotten something that would help her to eventually get Ms Granger relieved of her position.

* * *

_AN: Horology is the study of calendars. Not the study of whores. But I find this homophonic bit of trivia to be incredibly amusing._


End file.
